by June Francis
‘There is something between you and this man?’ he rasped.
She lifted her head and looked at him, then wished she had not because the blue eyes were regarding her with a great deal of annoyance. ‘He would have me be his woman,’ she said with some dignity.
‘You have not lain with him already?’ he demanded.
‘No,’ she said coldly. ‘Not that it is any of your business, m’sieur.’
‘Isn’t it?’ he said softly. ‘It seems foolish for me to help you, if all you are going to come back to is life in the greenwood with a cut-throat brigand.’
Louise’s eyes flashed. ‘He is a patriot! And will fight to the last drop of his blood.’
‘Whose blood?’ John countered grimly, wincing as his back brushed against the rock. ‘I vow that he has killed more innocents than I have. Besides, what can he offer you that’s worth having? I can offer you more.’
‘You!’ For a moment she could not think what else to say. Then, ‘I would not take anything from you, for surely you will want something in return.’ She folded her arms across her breasts and her eyes smouldered.
‘I presume you think that I’ll want you.’ He frowned at her. ‘You flatter yourself, mam’selle. But anything I could give you would be ten times better than life in that miserable settlement with a man who fears spirits more than God.’
His words touched a nerve. ‘You know nothing about him,’ she snapped. ‘And a hovel, living with him, would be preferable to living in a castle with you.’
There was a brief silence before John said in a weary voice, ‘I don’t live in a castle, but I could see you safely settled in a house with your sister. I could find you work. You will not even be bothered much with my company. I am not so often in England.’
She stared at him, not sure exactly what he was suggesting. She was not blind to her position. No man of means would wish to take her for wife. But if it was what he hinted at, then really she knew that she should be more affronted than she was, because of what he was, but she was not and that shocked her. ‘You really believe that I would wish to live in England?’ Her voice shook. ‘I hate the English.’
‘It would be a damn sight more comfortable — and safer — than living under a tree,’ he mocked. ‘And maybe sometimes, if you got over your seasickness, I could take you journeying with me — perhaps to Danzig in the north. Or to Bruges — surely, if your father was a clothier, you’ve visited Bruges?’
Louise did not answer because his words had made her furiously upset, bringing back memories that still had the power to hurt. For a moment she allowed herself to dwell on old times, remembering the great fair at Bruges and a particular length of lemon silk, brought overland by the Venetians, that her father had purchased. She had made an undergown and embroidered it with tiny white flowers. How she wished now that she had one such gown and that her hair was down her back. Then she would show this Englishman that she was worthy of being some man’s wife and not his whore!
‘You do not fancy Bruges? Or Danzig?’ John’s insidious voice broke into her thoughts. ‘You really would rather share a hovel with that murdering brigand?’
‘He is a fellow countryman,’ she said tersely.
His smile did not quite reach his eyes. ‘And I am the enemy. I’m glad that I didn’t fool myself into believing that you came to my rescue for any other reason than because you needed me to find your sister. Even so I can’t believe that you find me utterly distasteful.’
Louise could have hit him. ‘You have no sense of delicacy,’ she muttered. ‘You were cold and it was your suggestion that we — we kept each other warm.’
His blue eyes gleamed. ‘I’m cold now. So are you.’
‘Don’t touch me,’ she said hurriedly, wishing he would not look at her in such a way that it did strange things to her heart.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘You are safe. I have taken a vow of chastity not to bed a wench until I have fulfilled a quest.’
‘You — have taken a vow?’ A mocking laugh escaped her. ‘You surprise me, m’sieur.’
He smiled. ‘Almost I forgot it — if we had not been up a tree then I … ’ He left the sentence unfinished and his eyes closed as he leaned back against the rock.
‘You seem to forget it very easily,’ she said unsteadily. ‘How long have you known I was a maid?’
‘Almost from the moment we met,’ he said dispassionately. ‘But I did not let it bother me, and I considered that you would be happier thinking I still thought you a lad.’
‘How did I betray myself?’
‘You felt different in the water.’
Anger showed in her face and she crossed her arms defensively across her breasts. ‘You touched me — before I even knew you. How dared you?’
His lips twitched. ‘I could hardly rescue you without touching you.’
‘No. But … ’ She scowled at him and dropped her voice, saying awkwardly, ‘You make it sound different from ordinary touching.’
‘It was hardly that different,’ he said, almost apologetically. ‘You didn’t even notice.’ Not looking at her, he added in a murmur, ‘Not like before.’
She reddened. ‘I — I thought we were going to die.’
‘In that case you would have surely been wiser to have confessed your sins and prayed for absolution?’ he mocked.
Louise had not thought of that and was mortified, and furious, because she could not think of anything to say in answer, and was relieved when he straightened up with some difficulty and said, ‘Perhaps we should continue, however slow the pace?’
‘Ay.’ A long weary breath escaped her and she eased herself to the edge of the rock and slid to the ground. ‘Pierre — ’
‘Might find us yet,’ he finished. ‘And neither of us wants that at this moment if we are to find your sister.’ Louise made no answer, only forcing already stiffening muscles to work. Finding Marguerite was uppermost in her mind once again and now she worried about having antagonised John and whether he might change his mind about helping her. She would have been wiser holding her tongue.
They trudged on. Dawn came and the wind seemed less cold. Louise did not remember falling asleep on her feet and John almost despaired of them both surviving the night then. He managed to keep her going by half dragging her. Then he saw a ruined hamlet and roused her. They stumbled up the slope towards the tumbledown buildings. Most of the houses had been razed to the ground, but an ancient stone barn had defied all attempts to destroy it. Inside it was less cold and there was a heap of straw in a distant corner from the door. They collapsed into it, not caring whether there was vermin. Louise went instantly to sleep but John paused to cover them with a warm layer of straw. Then he, too, slept.
It was the sound of voices, indistinct but near, that woke Louise. She looked down at John, and was taken aback by the bruising and swelling on his face. A moment she stared at him, distressed, then she shook him awake, keeping a hand over his mouth as she did so. He was instantly alert, and, removing her hand but keeping hold of it, helped her to her feet.
She almost cried with pain as they limped their way over to the door. They stood behind it, listening. Then John let out a long breath. ‘They’re English.’ Opening the door, he went out into a damp grey day. Louise, her face set, followed slowly and stood, leaning, against the wall of the barn.
Several men, wearing padded jupons, chainmail hoods and flat steel helmets, broke away from the group and came towards John. One had a pike at the ready.
‘God grant you a good morn,’ called John, raising a hand in greeting as they approached.
‘It’s gone noon, mate, and you’ve been in the wars by the look of you,’ said the one with a pike, staring at him curiously. ‘And what’s that you be wearing?’ He grinned unexpectedly.
‘You catch me at a disadvantage.’ John smiled lopsidedly in response to the man’s obvious amusement. ‘We were attacked on the road and barely escaped with our lives.’
The man’s face darken
ed. ‘Several men reached the city last night with the news. And Sir John Popham has sent us out in search of the thieving, murdering swine.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. You’ll find signs of their slaughter a few miles back,’ said John, regretting that he could not help them further than that. He had no positive information to the brigands’ whereabouts. ‘Do you think there’s any chance of a horse to get us back to Caen?’
The man pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘Most of us are foot soldiers; only Sir Edmund and several of the archers are mounted. But you should be safe walking from here and it’s not that far.’
John thanked him and beckoned to Louise. She walked awkwardly over to him, avoiding the soldiers and doing her best to disguise her feelings. ‘Well, m’sieur,’ she muttered. ‘What help?’
‘None,’ he said briefly. ‘But we haven’t got far to go.
‘That I knew already,’ she said stiffly. ‘Let us get away from this place.’
They went, hungry, thirsty and footsore, and it was not too long before they saw Caen ahead with the towers of its white-walled donjon showing on its hill. What appeared at first sight to be hundreds of church spires pierced the grey sky. Outside the walls stood the great Abbaye-aux-Dames, where William the Conqueror’s wife Matilde lay, and where Henry V had set up some of his cannons.
Despite their aches and pains and weariness, their pace quickened as they drew nearer. Now could be seen the gleam of the river Orne, which encircled the lower, newer town, the Ile St Jean. The two parts of Caen were joined by a bridge spanning one of the arms of the Orne, which was guarded by the fort of St Pierre.
The riverside was busy, the quais thronged with people. Cargoes were being loaded and unloaded. There were vats of wine, and bales of cloth in oilskin wrapping, as well as chunks of the same white stone used in the building of the castle. They kept the wooden cranes occupied, swinging back and forth from ship to shore.
John was aware of the curious, sometimes pitying or smiling glances as they were jostled. He turned to Louise, who was gazing about her with differing expressions flitting across her face. ‘The Grace might not be here for some days, and I must have some clothes.’
She turned her hazel eyes on him. ‘Then it makes sense not to dawdle but to go to your house immediately.’
He agreed with the barest of hesitations, and allowed her to go a little ahead of him. She turned on to the bridge past clusters of beggars, and they forced their way along in company with tradesmen, priests, liveried officials and housewives, careful to avoid the rumbling, heavily loaded, metal-rimmed-wheeled wains.
They went along streets where shop owners cried the merits of their wares. There were tailors working in the front rooms of their homes, and shoemakers hammering pieces of leather into shape on lasts. And, to Louise’s annoyance, on every side could be heard the English tongue.
A pieman rang a bell, while he balanced a tray on his head. John signalled him and she purchased a couple of bacon pies.
They ate hungrily, walking slowly up a street of tall houses with casement windows and steep, tiled roofs. Here and there gaps showed in the rows, proof of the battering that the lower town had received during the siege two years ago.
Stopping before one such space filled with rank grass and weeds and littered with broken wood, bits of plaster and stone, Louise said in a voice tight with strain, ‘This was my home two years ago.’
He glanced at her slender, suddenly pale features. ‘Would you live in Caen again?’
She gave him a startled look. ‘You jest, mon’sieur! It would mean accepting your king’s rule. Impossible!’ She turned from him, limping round a corner and up another street.
John grimaced, and followed her. From several directions came the clack of looms and he gazed about him with interest. Women stood in some of the doorways, distaffs in hands, spinning. Halfway down the street he halted before a black front door. He did not hesitate but raised a fist and hammered on the door. The sound echoed through the house but nobody came to answer it. He knocked again.
Louise returned to his side and stepped back to take a better look at the house. Lifting her eyes she saw the figure of a woman at an upper window. For a few seconds they stared at each other before the woman drew back into the shadows.
Frowning, Louise said, ‘Try again. There is someone upstairs.’
John obeyed but it seemed a long time before footsteps sounded inside, and the door was opened.
A woman stood before them, clad in a crimson houppelande over a rose-coloured undergown. Her dark hair was smooth and looped up about her ears, and on her head she wore a crisp white head-dress. She winced as she looked at John. ‘Pardon? Can I do anything for you?’
Before John could speak, Louise said ‘Clotilde?’ She could hardly believe her eyes.
The woman flashed her a swift glance, inspecting her briefly. ‘You know me, m’sieur.’
‘It is I, Louise Saulnier!’
The woman’s mouth fell open and for several seconds no sound came out, then she squeaked, ‘After all this time — I don’t believe it!’
‘Pardon!’ John’s sharp voice drew her attention swiftly. ‘May we come in?’
She looked at him again. ‘Moi? cher?’ she asked in a faltering voice. ‘But what has happened to you?’
‘We were attacked,’ he answered, and immediately she was all solicitude, placing her plump white hands on his bare arm. ‘Come in! Come in! But what a terrible thing to happen. Where did it take place? My dearest, your face, it is unrecognisable! And you are filthy! And where are your clothes?’ While she was speaking, John was being hauled inside a room where a wood fire burned cheerfully in a large fireplace. She urged him into a carved oak chair and put a cushion to the back of his head. ‘Your poor feet — where are your shoes? Mon dieu! You should not have gone down to the quai alone. Did you fail in with thieves? Tell me immediately!’ Before he could answer she had rushed away and was bringing back a pitcher and a goblet.
Louise stood indecisively just inside the door, watching a smile come over John’s face as he stretched his legs towards the fire. Clotilde was pouring out wine and bewailing the damage to his face. Warring emotions fought inside Louise’s breast. Seeing her old friend had given her a severe shock, for it was obvious to her that Clotilde was on very friendly terms with Master Milburn. How could she behave in such a way? And Master Milburn! He was lapping up her attention like a cat when it got at the cream. Almost she had forgotten that he had admired Clotilde and raped her at the storming of Caen. Now it seemed the pair of them had set up home together. Was he married to Clotilde — or was she his mistress? She could not ask, and neither of them were taking any notice of her! Tears pricked the back of her eyes. Probably Master Milburn had a string of mistresses in different ports! She pressed her hands against her eyes. She would not cry! Not over a whoring Englishman!
Turning swiftly on her heel, Louise walked out of the house. She wandered about the streets trying to empty her mind of all thought, but it was not easy. She was cold and tired and her feet were very sore and she wished heartily that she had never met John Milburn.
She wandered down to the quais to watch the ships being loaded, and, although she doubted that the Grace could have arrived, limped along the waterfront, looking at the names of the vessels. She stopped to admire the figurehead and the fine carvings on the Christopher of Hull.
It was just as she was turning away that she heard Master Milburn’s voice. Instantly she whirled round and saw him, standing on the deck. Hardly able to believe that he could have changed so quickly and come down to the quai, she could not take her eyes from his now clean face and tidy figure in a damson doublet and red hose.
He suddenly seemed to become aware of her stare and looked straight at her, unspeaking. Then he presented her with his back and carried on with his conversation.
‘M’sieur Milburn!’ The name burst from her.
Slowly he turned and faced her, and the cool blue eyes ran ov
er her dishevelled appearance. ‘I think you make a mistake, lad,’ he said in English.
‘Parlez Français,’ she demanded. ‘How did you get here so quickly, and your — face … ’ She paused and realised the truth.
‘My face?’ he asked in French. ‘What is wrong with my face?’
‘It is nothing.’ Her voice was harsh. Why couldn’t Master Milburn have told her that he had a double? She turned and walked away.
‘Hey!’ he called. ‘Wait a moment!’
But Louise did not want to wait — did not want to talk to the man who was party to her sister’s abduction. She began to run, but he caught up with her and swung her round. ‘What is this, boy?’
She wrenched her arm out of his hold and backed away from him. ‘I made a mistake!’ And she would have walked away again.
‘Not so fast!’ His hand shot out to seize her wrist and his blue eyes gazed intently into hers. ‘You spoke a name that I know and seem to believe that we are acquainted.’
‘A mistake, m’sieur, as I told you. I thought you were someone else.’ She attempted to free herself but he held on.
‘A mistake? Ay,’ he murmured softly, sounding extremely like Master Milburn. ‘But perhaps it can easily be rectified. This man so like me — you have seen him recently?’ He spoke the last few words with a sudden sense of urgency.
Her eyes ran over his features, reluctantly marvelling at the similarity to John. ‘Yes,’ she muttered. ‘He is here in Caen and I think that he has been looking for you.’ He freed a long breath. ‘You know where he is?’
She nodded coolly. ‘You are kin to Master Milburn?’ A smile lifted the corners of his mouth. ‘You could say that. Take me to him.’
‘No.’ She came to a quick decision. ‘But I tell you that you will find him in Clotilde’s house.’
‘Thank you.’ He frowned down at her as he released her. ‘Haven’t we met before?’
